Oblivion
by whirligigkat
Summary: AU: In nurse's training in London, 1940, Molly Hooper realizes the task is much more than she bargained for. But there is one patient in her ward, a man whose eyes are covered in bandages, whom she is drawn to..but who only asks for John, always for John. Molly/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm sure this isn't completely historically accurate- forgive me, I just had to get this out of my system. I promise I'm still working on Franck Sonata- another month or so and I should have the last three chapters up.

Please go to youtube and type in "Oblivion Piazzolla Kremer" and listen to it- it's the one with the picture of a couple dancing, with a low-backed dress. . The piece is heart-wrenching, only 5 minutes, and inspired this fic. This will only be a two part ficlet; please tell me what you think!

 **Oblivion**

 **London, 1940**

She stocked the linen cupboard with restless hands, reveling in the relative silence of a day without sirens. Stacking the clean cloths on their respective shelves, she turned to inspect her work: everything was in order, and she pulled on the light-chain, drawing the door closed behind her. The chatter of nurses, of women, filled the hallway, heels clicking from every corner at a constant brisk pace.

There was always some task to be done in these brief periods of respite- needles to be sterilized, bedpans to scrub, stockings to mend. She clipped up the stairwell to the dormitory, bent on fetching her sewing kit from where she had forgotten it in the morning. "I love you," a girl murmured into the telephone as she passed, one hand curled over the receiver as if it were her love's cheek. At the far side of the room was her cot, and she neatly dodged the adornments of women's lives, hanging from bedposts and rafters and the rogue hanger, and any other spare knob that could be employed.

Molly Hooper sprawled on her cot for all of a moment, allowing herself one minute of breathing, simply for the sake of it, eyes shut against the stink of war. What was supposed to be a useful thing, nurse's training, had quickly descended into a nightmare of noise and despair she hadn't realized could be possible. But she stuck staunchly to the task she had set herself because here, with her scissors and her sewing kit and her steady hands, she could make a difference, no matter how small or large. She could never bring her father back, or her brother, but if it was only one man she saved, or gave the comfort of a warm hand to, it would already be enough. She drew a deep breath in through her nose, savoring the absence of _noise_ , with only the swirling murmurs of gossip in the company of women reaching her ears.

It was too good to last.

There was a shriek, followed closely by a hurried patter of footsteps; the slam of a doorknob into a wall. She sat bolt upright, tugging at her apron in an attempt to straighten it, as if the starched panes of cloth might help her survive whatever had caused that sound. "Something's happened," came the panicked voice of Mary, and she ran forward to clutch at Molly's hand. They held each other briefly, drawing strength from each other as only friends can, before the wail of voices reached a fever pitch, writhing up the walls in spurts and bursts in a clamor of dread. One final squeeze of rough fingers, one final glance, heavy with meaning, and they ran, ran, clattering down the hallways and stairs, past the throngs of nurses struggling to pin a heard-hearted attitude onto their pretty faces.

And then the men came, men flooding through the doors on stretchers stained red. Molly pushed past the doors and out into a street packed full of lorries, lorries packed full of soldiers; soldiers loitered on the corners or lounged on crates, soldiers draped on makeshift cots in every direction. Cigarettes dangled from the corners of their thin mouths, and they dragged in dull breaths to bring color to their grey faces. The edges of dirty bandages ran rampant around heads, chests, mangled limbs that bore no resemblance to their function.

Within moments Molly found herself supporting a stretcher with Mary, clenching the end of it as if her life depended on it. They found an empty bed in the clamor of the ward, and deposited their silent man onto it, as he struggled to breathe. When she looked up the room swam about her; the sounds of wailing men assaulted her ears, men so red with blood she could barely see their faces, men with stitches swollen tight and rank with infection, men with skin melted by the heat of fire. And what could she do? What could Molly Hooper, little, plain, Molly Hooper do, in the face of this destruction, this absolute disregard for life? A hand landed on her shoulder- Mary's hand, steady, firm, and with the strength they both needed to see the night through. And with a tight nod from them both, they continued, on, and on, and on.

Later, when the halls had been cleared of the smell of piss and blood, to be replaced with the tang of anesthetic barely covering the stench of death, Molly stood over the cold steel of an industrial sink. She scrubbed at her fingers, and her palms, and her nails. The brush was course and bristling, and she sloughed the layers of skin from her hands, until they were raw and trembling. The hard smell of the soap stung her nostrils, but she rubbed harder, faster, as though if she could erase the day from her hands, she could erase it from existence. The brush clattered to the bottom of the basin, and she clutched at the edges of the cold metal, her body bent forward as the bile rose in her throat. The slim contents of her stomach emptied itself with a sickening splash, and she gasped as the burn of stomach acid permeated her throat. The sting of tears trailed unbidden from her eyes, and her body heaved.

"Nurse Hooper," a stern voice interrupted. Sister Clarence stood in the doorway in all her no-nonsense stylings, manner stiff as ever. She gave Molly a brisk once-over as she stood to attention, face softening slightly as she took in Molly's blotched face and quivering hands.

Molly shakily wiped the spittle from her lips. "Yes, Sister Clarence." Sister Clarence pursed her lips, taking in the slight girl, struggling to school her expression into that of a Nurse, instead of a young woman who had seen far more of suffering today than anyone should ever see. "Nurse Hooper, there is a patient in your section in need of your assistance." She hesitated, empathy for the girl- for the soldier, for the situation, for the world- threatening to overcome her, as it colored her words. "You might give him some..morphine, for his nerves. There is a little left- he'll keep the whole ward awake otherwise, I'm afraid."

"Yes, Sister Clarence," Molly said, stiffening her resolve; and she tugged at her apron, straightened her cap. With a steady breath of determination, she left with head held high, leaving Sister Clarence standing in her wake.

The patient in question lay tossing in his bed as she approached. He had been cleaned, as best as any of them could manage given the circumstances, his face pale and shining with sweat in the little light filtering in from the high window. As she approached, she saw what she had at first overlooked in the poor light: bandages were wrapped thickly around his head, covering his eyes from view. He tossed his head fitfully from side to side, muttering under his breath, his hands occasionally flailing about in a manner suggestive of a seizure. She caught one of his hands in her own, moving to sit beside his cot, and held it firmly- but regretted this action almost immediately, as he let out a great shout, wrenching free from her grip with a strength she had not thought him capable of in his state. She reached again for his hand, and in doing so brushed his side: the shock of such close contact had him thrashing about as if the very devil was upon him. "It's alright," she whispered, "Calm yourself." But it was no good, and the groans from the nearby beds grew louder by the moment. She put her hand to his forehead, pushing back the lank, dark curls, still sticky with blood. He burned with fever, and she wondered if he would last the night. The thought caused her gorge to rise once again, and she swallowed forcefully, stroking his forehead until he had calmed. "It's alright," she whispered again, although she wasn't sure who exactly she was trying to convince. "I'm here. I'm here."

"John?" he asked her suddenly, his voice hoarse with smoke and disuse. "John," he said again, and she grabbed his hand towards herself, brushing his dirty fingers with her thumb. "I'm here." He sagged into the bedding, the lines of his face smoothing. She took the opportunity to strap the tourniquet around his arm, plunging the syringe deftly into his flesh. His breathing evened slowly, and as she stood, she looked closer at them man- who might even be handsome, if this were a different time, or a different place- if his eyes weren't wrapped with ragged bandages stained with the dirt of war.

"Rest easy," she whispered, and tucked the sheets up higher to his chin. She gathered her things, and left.


	2. Part II

**PART II**

In the grey of early morning, when the aftermath of whatever great catastrophe could be seen by the weak light of day, she looked for him. And he was there- had pulled through the night after all. The touch of a smile reached her eye, before she continued on with her duties. Working through her assigned section in the ward, she reached his bed around mid-morning. The fever had settled somewhat, and she mopped at his brow with a clean cloth, while he stirred restlessly. She unclipped the fouled bandages, holding her breath against the stink, and carefully began to unwind them. He gasped at the touch, rousing himself to partial awareness, as she peeled the layers of bandages from each other. "D-don't," he stuttered, barely finding his tongue, "s-stop- "

"I'm just putting fresh bandages on, don't you worry," she murmured.

"I can't- can't see, can't see," he stammered, "Where is th- the light, what have you- done with the light- "

The last of the wrappings were peeled from his face, and he moaned at the contact of air against his damaged skin. She removed the padding from each of his eyes, biting down on her lip hard, stifling any sound from her mouth. "Now I'm just going to clean them," she said steadily, wetting her rag and swiping it gently across his ravaged face. His eyes were swollen shut, and stitches ran across, pulling one eye in a downward turn. The blue and hot red and yellow blotching of his swollen eyes horrified her, and she wiped at the pus leaking from the wounds, hoping she wouldn't have to re-open them to drain the infection.

"I can't," he began again, and she could see the twitch of his singed lashes struggling to open his eyelids, his lips twisting in pain. "There, now," she said, "don't try to open them- I'll just slip a fresh bandage on, then," He lay silent and still at that, allowing her to pin the linens back in place. She sat back to check her work- definitely an improvement, but there was still much to be done. Her eyes drifted to the open neck of his pajamas, where his pallid skin peeked through. "Where is your dog tag?" she wondered aloud, and he groped fruitlessly at his neck, letting his hand fall with a grunt when it came back empty. "Lost," he replied carelessly. But she had to know- something, one thing, _anything_ about this man.

"I am Nurse Hooper," she offered. When he did not reply, she prompted, "What is your name?"

"John," he whispered after a moment, and then stronger- "Where is John?"

"I don't know," she said, because it was the only thing she could say. He las silently, and after a time, she left.

~0~0~

By the time she finally removed the bulk of his bandages, the snow had begun to fall in earnest, mixing with the thin layers of ash floating about the city. She wondered if she would ever see his eyes: the lids had bonded themselves so securely to his flesh that sometimes she was doubtful he would ever fully heal. But she tended to him all the same, sometimes talking, but more often not, as he never responded, except to ask for John. It made her wonder just who John was, and she imagined all sorts of circumstances. He never gave up in his questioning, and all she could ever respond was a regretful, "I don't know".

So it came as a shock when he one day opened his mouth and asked in a careful, measured voice, "Why did you turn down your position to study at Cambridge?"

She dropped the clean pan she had been carrying in shock, and he smirked at the clatter that echoed across the ward. "How on Earth did you know that?" she whispered furiously, stooping to collect the pan from where it had fallen under his cot.

"Ah," he said, "Shot in the dark, but a good one." He must have felt the anxiety coursing through her glare, as he began to speak again in a clipped, analytical tone: " You're much more methodical than the other nurses, as if you've studied textbooks, and the like. Your fingers are always searching for some damage underneath the skin, some fracture of bone or rupture of vessels. You're not rushed in your examination, nor are you squeamish. You're not one for idle talk. You've the demeanor of an educated woman, yet you're here, serving as a nurse. The state of your hands- a layer of _new_ callus from menial labor- scrubbing bedpans, scrubbing basins, scrubbing fouled cots- points to a relatively well-to-do family, so not just any school of medicine would do; Oxford and Cambridge is looking good. The undercurrents of your accent place you in the eastern end of the country, but you are, obviously, still a _woman_ of family; Mummy and Daddy are hardly likely to let their darling daughter too far out of their sight or reach, so Cambridge, then; and you whisper the parts of my body under your breath in Latin when you are at work; bit of a give-away, I'm afraid. Oh, do sit down," he mentioned as an after-thought, waving his hand to where the chair usually stood. "But I don't understand why you are _here_ , after all- oh, oh of course. So who was it? Your Father? Brother?"

"Both, actually," she said tersely. The reminder had come over her like a wave of ice, and she dropped into the chair bonelessly, shaking in recognition of the gaping chasm he had so carelessly shed light upon.

"Always something.." he muttered, before he caught his breath and stilled. She set her resolve, determinedly setting her sights outward, and busied herself with her work. She checked his pulse, his bandages, cleaning him perhaps rougher than she should have, but unable to control the anger coursing through her. As she finished pinning the final bandage in place, he reached for her hand, which she pulled away sharply.

"Don't," she said coldly. "I don't- "

"It was wrong of me," he said suddenly, and had the grace to look fully ashamed. "And I am very…very sorry, for your loss. Forgive me, Nurse Hooper."

She stood silently watching him, biting at her lip, fighting savagely with the need to forgive, or the need to spit his words back in his face. She watched his face turn from remorse to confusion, as his head began to swivel from side to side. "Are you there? Or have you left.."

"There is great need," she interrupted him in a strangled voice, and relief slid onto his face. She cleared her throat, and began again- "There is great need for nurses, and I found I was of more use.. here."

"And aren't there an innumerable amount of nurses, Nurse Hooper?" he smirked, clearly unaware that she was still in a great fury. _Amazing_ , she thought to herself, _A complete lack of social aptitude._

"Well, yes," she replied slowly, as if he was a bit dim, "but there will always need for more- " He snorted, and she blazed again, snapping, "I bloody well am healing _you_ , aren't I?"

"I don't know, Nurse _Hooper,"_ he said sarcastically, "Tell me, will I ever see again?" She bit her lip fiercely, torn again between compassion and pride, before spitting, "Tell _me_ , whoever you are- what's a man with a posh accent like _yours_ doing fighting the same war that I am?" It was his turn to fall silent, and she took the initiative, asking, "Who is John?"

He lay quiet for a moment, before turning away.

~0~0~

It was several days before they spoke again. She worked on him in silence, and he allowed her to, adjusting blindly to the needs her hands made clear, the remorse on his face plain. When he did speak, finally, the sound of his voice was gruff on her ears.

"John is- " his voice croaked, and he cleared his throat, one hand gripping at the sheets. "John is my friend."

His scars had begun to look less angry, less inflamed, and more like healing flesh. The lashes on his eyelids had begun to grow again, the singed part of his brows had returned. She wondered if soon he might be able to open his eyes, and found herself wondering, yet again, what color they might be.

He was quiet while she washed his face and carefully shaved him, though he threaded his hands together and apart the whole while. When she had finished, he turned his face towards her and said, finally, "John is my only friend."

"I'm sure that's not true," she began, but at the pained look on his face, she stopped. She sat back in the chair, and folded her hands. "Tell me about him," she prompted. His curls had grown long, she noted, and were in need of a good trim. After a moment, he began again; slowly, carefully.

"John..saved me. From myself. I barely knew him; I had left University- incredibly tedious- and found myself lodgings in London, away from the help of my family, and from the eyes of my brother.." he took a great shuddering breath, grimacing at the memory and steeling himself to continue. She realized, as his hand found hers and stilled, gripping tightly at her fingers, that this was a confession. She took his hand in both of hers- clean, now, with long and elegant fingers scrubbed clean. Looking quickly to see if anyone was watching, she brought his palm to her lips, and kissed it softly. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and squeezed his hand gently. "Go on," she said, "tell me."

He drew breath, and continued. "He was.. John was my flatmate. I was not kind to him, I never made it easy for him. I was perfectly dislikable, to be truthful. I had a.. habit. A seven percent habit." He smirked at this, though the humor, she suspected, did not reach his eyes. Her eyes darted down to the crook of his arm, where she had noticed previously the marks of addiction. It was never a pretty sight, but had paled in the wake of his other injuries. "John did not approve, he made that perfectly clear. I can't say I blame him, I'm not of much use at those times," he grimaced. "But there was a time, when I did not return for.. several nights. John found me. I had gone too far, taken too much, and it is frankly down to him that I am now alive at all. He brought me home, and cared for me- and forced me to break the habit. I was not an easy patient, I assure you- "

"You're still not," she assured him, and a smile broke free from his lips, transforming his face; but it was quickly lost. "I can never repay him for what he did; how can I convey to you, the depth of the debt I owe him? The friendship he offered me- good, honest, friendship that _I don't know how_ to give back- "

"But surely you have already? You are, as you admit, _his friend_ as well?"

But his face contorted into such an expression of grief that it took every ounce of her resolve to not lean forward and hold him. "I lost him. I lost him…" he choked, and tremblingly gripped her wrist, his shoulders shaking. "I can't cry," he mumbled, and she pushed him back on the pillow, smoothing his hair from his forehead. "I made a vow…to keep him safe and.. he had to fight, he _had_ to fight, he was always stupidly noble, the idiot.. I told him, I told him he was an idiot but he joined anyway, and how could I.. not, how could I not follow him? And I lost him, don't you see, one moment he was there, and then the noise, there was such _noise_ , and I could hear him, hear John _screaming_ but I- I couldn't see- _I can't see_ , and when I woke up here and- it was you, only you, Nurse Hooper, not John.."

"Molly," she said, her voice shaky. "I'm Molly."

"Molly," he said slowly, turning his blind face towards her, "Molly, where is John?"

~0~0~

After a month had passed, his eyelids had begun to heal, peeling back- not all at once, but slowly, over days, and she began to see the tantalizing darkness of his irises against the whites of his eyes. They were still clouded with blindness but sensitive, she thought, to the light.

He turned his head as her footsteps drew closer, cocking his head in her direction. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips as he said, "Hello, Molly."

"Hello," she said, and helped him to his feet. They had begun the process of strengthening his muscles, and though his steps were hesitant and jerky, he moved with the traces of a distinguished grace that hearkened back to his earlier life. He navigated around the ward slowly, his arm in hers, as she guided him about the hallways. They mostly walked in silence, his head swiveling in all directions, as if trying to grasp the essence of the ward with all his senses but sight.

As she finally brought him back to his cot that day, helping him swing his legs over the edge of the cot, she told him quietly, "They'll be moving you tomorrow."

"I know," he said, plucking at the corner of the sheet.

"You can't stay here. You've stayed too long already," she said in a rush, willing the hateful words from her mouth. "It's- it's not my decision, but I just- I wanted you to- I was hoping you'd see, before you left,"

"I know," he said again, staring blindly at the opposite end of the ward.

"What is your name?" she blurted out, because the thought had come to her in the night: _She would miss him._ Besides Mary, he had become her confidante, and one of the only men she had ever truly spoken to. And she had realized, as the gentle sound of sleeping women swam around her, that this past month of company with a blind and nameless man had become a series of moments that she quietly cherished. The knowledge that the bright spark of his life might never be known to her- whether he lived or died, if he saw, or did not see, if he would ever find _John-_ to not be given the fair chance to _know_ this man was more than she could bear. She looked at his face, his handsome features, and found herself wishing she could have seen his eyes, just once.

"Sherlock," he said, after a moment's silence. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock," she said slowly, tasting his name on her tongue, and was rewarded with a smile that touched the corners of his eyes. "I'll find you again, Sherlock Holmes."

The next morning, when she entered the ward, his cot was empty.

 **A/N: ok, I lied. There will also be an epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed this- please review!**


	3. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Five years later and she, like everyone else, is picking up the pieces of her life, smashed into oblivion like so many grains of sand. It is a hard thing to know that the war is won; that the men have come home, that families have been reunited, that there is need for joy and inspiration- and yet the shades of war are present. They lurk on every street corner in the furtive eyes of men, in the rubble of streets and building slowly seeing themselves rebuilt, in the gaunt faces of children returning to altered parents in the wake of a vastly different city.

Molly Hooper buries herself in study, an open textbook her constant companion. She's seen too much, experienced too much, to yet be ready for a world without the clear and steadfast discipline of a nurse's ward. But so has every other man and woman, though they all cope differently. Some fare better, and some worse, though they all walk to the beat of that silent drum; those that have the temerity to live. Each of their lives has become a gift: and when so very much has been lost, making sense of this gift is a daily struggle in sanity.

But the human heart is persistent, and it is with this recognition in her breast that Molly finds herself walking to what's left of the shops, clutching at her ration book tightly in her pocket. The air has the scent of spring, despite the constant presence of dust in the air, and she savors it. Tiny shoots of grass have forced themselves through the cracks in the pavement, a testament to nature's will beyond the great and small, and she smiles to herself in this secret knowledge.

A child runs across the street, shouting to his mate, and the movement catches her eye: there, moving slowly across the sidewalk, she spies two men. One leans heavily upon a cane, the other keeps his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark coat, the collar upturned against the still-present chill. There is something about this man, though she can only see the back of his head- his gait is unsteady, yet determined, as if he is uncertain in his steps and entirely irritated about it. But his head is one covered in dark curls, and so she follows them, her breath catching in her throat as the shock of recognition flows through her.

She walks faster, her heels clicking in a familiar staccato against the pavement. The man with the cane looks pained, and they pause on the next corner to catch their breath- and so she runs the last few steps, clutching at her skirts, the man with the cane raising his brow at her in a quizzical expression. She stops, slowly reaching out to the tall figure she knows, touching him on the arm.

"Sherlock?" she says, voice breathless and trembling in the breeze.

He turns at the sound of her voice- and his eyes are very, very blue.

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Drop a line and let me know what you think; this was very much a first attempt in period pieces- and, I think, my first ever finished story. If you enjoyed this, take a look at some of my other work. Thanks again!**


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